Contagion
by Kierrn Saro
Summary: Dean's paranoia is starting to rub off on Sam. I'm going for a first-season tone here. No angels or powers, just a couple dudes with very different personalities hunting monsters. Rated M because I tend to drop F-bombs. Be warned: updates will be extremely erratic and probably infrequent, but you can help! Story and plot suggestions are extremely welcome.


It was becoming contagious.

Calling it obsessive-compulsive was cliche, but it really hit the nail on the head. One must know how to identify the creature, then how to assess it. Not every paranormal being was a threat, contrary to popular belief. If it was, one had to understand how to kill it and then how to make it stay dead. That was the trouble with this line of work: if improperly handled, problems could come back to haunt you. Literally.

_Find. Recognize. Research. Study. Kill. Eliminate. _John Winchester's mantra.

Dean had grown up with the routines. Sam had too, of course, but those who move to the mountains don't often practice for floods, regardless of what valleys they were raised in. Being away from the family took its toll (as Dean saw it), and it gave him a unique perspective (as Sam saw it). He was a better communicator. He seemed more normal and personable to other people - to normal people.

Dean thought he was insane. Careless. Ignorant of important details.

They stopped that evening at a gas station in Bovey, Minnesota.

Dean turned the key, and AC/DC suddenly lost interest in how dirty the deeds were, or how cheaply they were done. The Winchesters opened their doors simultaneously, eager for fresh air and leg room after a full night and day in the Impala. Thus, neither heard the wolves howling before the other did. Dean froze, a hand on his gun, listening intently and staring around him, perturbed by his inability to see beyond the pool of light provided by the single lamp above the single gas pump where they were parked. Sam glanced anxiously at his brother and then in what he assumed was the direction of the sound, then took a few paces and snatched up a newspaper from the rack near the main building. He swiftly retreated back to within the circle of light and turned a couple pages.

"Wolves in Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Michigan recently removed from the federal threatened and endangered species list," he read. He relaxed slightly and looked up at his brother. "They're having a wolf hunting season this year. Must be a hell of a comeback." Dean grunted and did not put away his gun. He did, however, shift it to his left hand and turn some of his attention to filling the tank. Meanwhile, Sam was reading further and becoming more relaxed (and less alert, Dean noted) by the second.

"Hey, this is pretty great," Sam told him. "By the polls, most Minnesota residents find wolves scientifically fascinating and think that they're an essential part of the ecosystem."

"Super," Dean grumbled. "More business coming our way."

"What?" Sam squinted at him. "Wolves aren't monsters. They're just wolves. Not our thing."

"Sure, but getting used to wolves leads to...?" Dean gave his brother a significant look.

Sam's only reply was a blank stare. Dean sighed, shoulders drooping, and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "Werewolves, Sammy! Fucking lycanthropes! They'll be everywhere!"

"Weres aren't the same as lycanthropes," Sam said, almost sternly.

"I know that!" _Was he being deliberately obtuse? _"Point is, people who get accustomed to howling don't tend to notice when their neighbors start joining in. We should hang around for a day or two."

"Fine by me." Sam seldom objected to a more stable environment. "But why the interest? As of now, you don't even know if there's a pretty girl involved."

Attempting to ignore his brother's sidelong smirk, Dean stood a bit taller and said confidently, "They don't sound like normal wolves."

Sam shrugged and, noting the approach of a tall man in leather boots and a blue cowboy hat, turned his attention from Dean to the stranger. The man turned out to be the owner of the station and, coincidentally, the nearby inn. The Winchesters gratefully accepted a room at half price, due to their claim of being wolf hunters and to the innkeeper's unease over the growing population of predators. Apparently a few of "those goddamn beasts" had made off with one of his neighbor's llamas the same day the wolves had been declared as no longer endangered, and the blue-hatted man was concerned for his goats. After all, how else was he supposed to keep the grass trimmed at both the gas station AND the inn? Sam nodded sympathetically while Dean rolled his eyes. The pump clunked, indicating the Impala's tank was full, and Dean gave a loud, fake cough and looked pointedly at Sam as he replaced it and screwed on the car's gas cap.

Sam gave him an exasperated look and turned back to the stranger with an apologetic smile and an internal sigh at his brother's tactlessness. "So, it's, uh... getting a little late, and we've been on the road for a while..."

The other straightened suddenly, apparently just realizing that he had been rambling. "Oh, I am sorry, son, but I just get so worked up over these damn hippies and their critters... look here, just go up the road a-ways and you'll see my sign. Gotta close up the station real quick, here, and then I'll be along, but I don't want to keep you. Got a long day of hunting tomorrow, I hope, so get some sleep. You just tell my wife I sent you and she'll fix you right up."

"Thank you, sir. We'll see you there."

"Sir?" The man snorted good-naturedly. "Eric, boy. Eric Ericson." He turned back to the main building, presumably to close up.

"Sam," called Sam at his retreating back. "Sam..." _No, no, be forgettable... oh, fuck it. His name is ridiculous, too. _"...Jackson. Samuel Jackson. My brother is Dean."

Eric either did not watch many movies or had a great poker face. He glanced over his shoulder and raised a hand in acknowledgment of the introduction, but kept walking. Sam grinned to himself and turned to see whether Dean got the joke, but he was already behind the wheel and waiting.

Sam got in and Dean immediately turned on him. "Are you fucking serious, dude? You know the deal! Anonymous! Forgettable! Fucking blend, would you? Samuel goddamn Jackson..." His rebuke faded into a mutter as he started the car, but after a few seconds he smirked and looked sidelong at his brother. "Eric Ericson? Damn. That guy's parents were _dicks_."

Sam tried to glare, but he couldn't stop his mouth from quirking slightly. Dean saw it and went from sniggering to absolutely howling as they drove toward the inn.


End file.
